Dare Not Believe
by MissJamieAnn
Summary: A one-shot of the infamous proposal scene that combines the amazing-yet different-words from both the original Elizabeth Gaskell novel and BBC miniseries.


_A/N: I adore both the BBC version of "North & South" as well as the original Elizabeth Gaskell novel. The proposal scene is pivotal in both versions. I was surprised when I read the book that some great lines from the book were not in the TV version...and vice versa. I immediately thought it would be great to bring both versions together, so the wonderful words of Gaskell and the BBC writer Sandy Welch could both be enjoyed in one scene. It took me a surprising amount of time to bring these two versions of the same scene together in my head...to figure out how to interleave them. I hope I did so seamlessly and that you, Gentle Reader, enjoy my efforts._

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 _Background: The day before the proposal, there is a riot at Mr. Thornton's mill, long simmering due to a prolonged labor strike. Just before the rioters break down the mill gate, Miss Margaret Hale comes to the mill on an errand. Now caught in the family living quarters, she encourages Mr. Thornton to try to talk to the strikers (who are fast becoming an angry mob). He goes to them. From her vantage point, Margaret can see that he is in peril. She herself tries to go down to reason with the strikers. They are beyond that at this point. Margaret decides to bodily protect Mr. Thornton by throwing her arms around him and shield him from the strikers, believing they would not harm a woman. She takes a stone to the temple. In a lovely moment only in the book-not in the miniseries-as Mr. Thornton is carrying the unconscious Margaret into his home, he realizes what she means to him and how much he loves her. Later that evening, he comes to the conclusion that he must ask her to marry him, even if he "dare not believe that such a woman could ever care for me."_

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Dare Not Believe

Dixon opened the door to Mrs. Hale's sick room very softly and walked quietly to Margaret, who was sitting by the window. "Mr. Thornton is in the drawing room," she whispered.

Margaret hoped that the faithful servant didn't hear her near silent gasp, but she had to have noticed that she dropped her sewing. Attempting to keep her voice even, Margaret stated in hushed tones, "Is Papa back?"

"The master is still out, but Mr. Thornton asked for you, Miss Margaret."

"Very well, Dixon, I will come," Margaret murmured, yet somehow she couldn't quite get her feet to propel her to the door as quickly as her words might have suggested they would.

With his back to the door, Mr. Thornton gazed out the drawing room window with unseeing eyes, though it would appear to an outsider that he was absorbed watching the bustle of the street below. But, in truth, his thoughts were solely on the task before him, of what would transpire once she came through the door. His heart beat fast and erratically at the thought of her coming across that threshold.

He could not forget the feel of her arms around his neck just the day before, though at the time—in the heat of the building riot—it was impatiently felt and barely noticed. But now—now—the memory of her stalwart, clinging defense of him thrilled him through and through, melting away every resolution and all power of self-control. He feared that once she opened the door, he would not be able to stop himself from going forward to meet her with his arms open wide, begging her to come to him, to embrace him as she had done unheeded the day before but never unheeded again. He felt as if his wildly beating heart was going to escape the confines of his chest.

Mr. Thornton drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Strong man as he was, he trembled in anticipation of what he had to say and how it might be received. Would she come into his arms, as to her natural home and resting place? For just a moment, he glowed with impatience at the thought that she might do just this, but then in the next moment, he feared an impassioned rejection. He closed his eyes. The very idea of that withered his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it.

Lost in his silent reverie, he was startled by the sense of the presence of someone else in the room. He turned away from the window. She had come in so gently that he hadn't heard the slow movements of her soft muslin gown.

She stood somewhat stiffly by the table, not sitting down or offering him a seat. Her eyes were downcast, and Mr. Thornton noticed that she looked paler today, no doubt caused by the blow she had received that she was now trying to cover by bringing her hair down close around her temples. Her head, even with the downcast eyes, was thrown back a little, in her typical proud attitude. Her arms hung motionless by her sides, her hands clasped in front of her. Altogether, she looked like a prisoner falsely accused of a crime she loathed and despised and from which she was too indignant to justify herself.

Swiftly, Mr. Thornton made a hasty step or two towards her, recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the open door and shut it.

He steadied himself by lightly laying his hand on the back of a chair by the table. Feeling the silence in the room, he cast his eyes to the table. "I had not noticed the color of this fruit."

More in control, he resumed his former position and looked at her for a moment, taking in her stately, graceful, and beautiful presence before he dared to disturb it—perhaps repel it—by what he had to say.

"Miss Hale, I was very ungrateful yesterday—"

"You have nothing to be grateful for," she said as she raised her eyes to look full and straight at him.

"I think that I do," Mr. Thornton rushed to say.

Margaret shook her head. "You mean—I suppose—that you believe you ought to thank me for what I did." She blushed crimson but kept him fixed with a serious, steady look. "It was only a natural instinct; any woman would have done the same. When we see danger that we believe we can help avoid, we must act. I did only the least that anyone would have."

Now it was Mr. Thornton's turn to shake his head. "That can't be true," he said in low tones.

Margaret raised her chin and spoke decisively as she crossed to the window, "I was, after all, responsible for placing you in danger. I would have done the same for any man there."

Mr. Thornton turned fully toward her and lifted his eyebrows, "Any man?" Brow now furrowed, his countenance visibly darkened. "So, you approve of that violence? You think I got what I deserved?"

"Oh, no, of course not! But they were desperate. I know if you were to talk to them and not set the soldiers on them—"

Mr. Thornton looked down, a low sigh belying his exasperation. "I forgot. You imagine them to be your friends."

"Mr. Thornton." His head snapped up at her direct address to him. "I ought rather," she stated softly, clearly not wanting to follow the present direction of the conversation, "to apologize to you for having said thoughtless words which sent you down into danger."

"It was not your words; it was the truth they conveyed, strongly as it was expressed," he admitted. He turned up the corners in his mouth in what he hoped would be perceived as a heartfelt smile, though he could not quite manage to remove all traces of the furrow of his brow. "But you can't distract me and keep me from telling you of my deep gratitude, my—"

He was on the verge now but held himself back. He would not speak in haste, though he felt rushing intensity charge through every cell of his body. He would weigh every word.

"I am not trying to keep you from anything. I simply say that you owe me no gratitude. Honestly, it would be difficult for me to hear because I do not feel that I deserve it. Still, if it will relieve you from even a fancied obligation, go ahead."

Her calm manner was his undoing. "Miss Hale, I didn't just come here to thank you. I came because I think it very likely—I know I've never found myself in this position before—it is difficult to find the words…" He paused for the merest of seconds, trying to gather his scattered thoughts more ably so they could be aptly spoken. "Miss Hale, my feelings for you are very strong. I do not want to be relieved from any obligation, fancied or unfancied. I choose to believe that I owe my very life to you. And I believe it because it adds value to my life to think—oh, Miss Hale!" lowering his voice to such a tender intensity of passion that she felt a shiver trace down her spine, "to think that whatever life has ahead for me, whatever gladness, honest toil, my very being, I owe to you. It doubles the happiness, sharpens the sense of existence until I hardly know if it is pain or pleasure, to think that I owe it to one—you must, you shall hear—" he said as he stepped forward with stern determination, "to one whom I love."

He did not know when he had grasped it, but after this speech, he found that his hand tightly clasped one of hers. Trying to master his breathing, he awaited her reply. At her icy tones, he dropped her hand as pain clenched his chest. Though her words were cool, they came faltering out, as if she knew not where to find them.

"Please, stop. Please don't go any further. Your way of speaking shocks me; I cannot help it, as that is my first feeling. It might not be so if I understood the kind of feeling you describe."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Thornton's eyes narrowed slightly.

Margaret turned from him and walked to the window. "Please don't continue in that way." She faced him squarely. "It is not the way of a gentleman. I don't want to upset you—and besides, we must speak gently, for Mama is asleep—but your whole manner offends me—"

"How!" he exclaimed, his voice deepening, as he walked around the table to directly face his accuser. "Offends you! I am well aware that in your eyes, at least, I am not a gentleman. But I think I deserve to know why I am offensive."

Margaret's eyes flashed. With brow wrinkled, she shook her head. "It offends me that you speak to me as if it were your duty to rescue my reputation!"

Mr. Thornton leaned forward, brow decidedly furrowed over eyes that betrayed his own offense at having his true heart's feelings reduced thus. "I spoke to you about my feelings because I love you. I have no thought for your reputation."

Margaret seemed to have barely heard him, continuing her torrent of words as if he had not spoken. "You think that because you are rich, and my father is in reduced circumstances, you can have me for your possession." She thrust her chin forward. "I should expect no less from someone in trade!"

Mr. Thornton took a few small strides around the table to stand directly in front of her. With rising feeling, unable to control himself, he found himself yelling, "I don't want to possess you. I wish to marry you because I love you!"

Margaret looked at him and moved away. Not quite convincingly, she stated in a somewhat petulant tone, "You shouldn't, because I do not like you and never have." Letting out an exasperated sigh, she turned to the window.

More in control of himself, he turned from her, shaking his head, as he walked to the mantel. "One minute we talk of the color of fruit, the next of love. How does that happen?"

A chasm of silence opened between them as neither spoke or moved for a few moments.

Wanting desperately to change the topic, Margaret spoke, "My friend, Bessie Higgins, is dying."

Barely looking up from the fireplace, he said more to himself than her, "And that, of course, is my fault, too."

Margaret sighed as she looked up, her actions and the tension in her shoulders showing her clear exasperation. Her cool tones were in conflict with the indignation that could still be seen in her eyes. "You seem to think that my conduct yesterday was a personal act between you and me, and that you may come and thank me for it instead of perceiving, as a gentleman would—yes! a gentleman" she repeated, alluding to their former conversation about that word, "that any woman worthy of her gender would come forward to shield a man in danger from the violence of numbers."

"And the gentleman thus rescued is not allowed to express his thanks? I am a man; I claim the right to express my feelings."

"And I let you, though I told you I did not want to hear it," she said proudly. "But you seem to believe that I was not just guided by protective instinct, but"—and here the tears that she had struggled with vehemently came into her eyes and choked her voice—"but that I was prompted by some particular feeling for you—YOU! Why, there was not a man—not a poor, desperate man in all that crowd—for whom I had not more sympathy—for whom I should not have done what little I could more heartily."

"I am aware of these misplaced sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of oppression—even Masters can be oppressed—that made you act so nobly as you did." His mouth was set in a firm, grim line. "I know you despise me. Allow me to say that it is because you do not understand me."

"I do not care to understand," she replied, perhaps just a little too quickly, as she took hold of the table to steady herself as indignation raged through her like a hot fire.

"No, I see you do not. You are unfair and unjust."

Again, silence opened between them for what seemed like an eternity. "I'm sorry," she finally offered quietly.

"For what?" The words were spat out more than spoken. He turned from the mantel to face her. "That you find my feelings offensive? Or that you assume that because I am in trade I'm only capable of thinking in terms of buying and selling? Or that I take pleasure in sending my employees to an early grave?"

"No! No, of course not. I—I'm sorry to be so blunt." She moved toward him, shaking her head, speaking softly and gently. "I have not learned h-h-how to refuse, how to respond when a man talks to me as you just have."

Mr. Thornton turned his head slightly to one side and lifted his eyebrows. "Oh? There are others?" A pained expression flickered across his face before it was replaced with a clouded, shuttered one. He crossed in front of her to the door, shaking his head. "This happens to you every day? Of course. You must have to disappoint so many men that offer you their hearts."

"Please understand, Mr. Thornton…" Margaret stopped there and held her lips in a tight line. She would not speak to answer such accusations.

But for all that—for all his harsh words—he would have thrown himself at her feet and begged her forgiveness if but given a sign. She did not speak, however; she did not move. Tears fell hot and fast. He waited a few minutes, wanting her to say something—even a taunt—to which he might reply. But she was silent, so he took up his hat.

"One word more. You look as if you thought it tainted to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. I have never loved any woman before: My life has been too busy, my thoughts too much absorbed with other things. Now I love and will love, but do not be afraid of too much expression on my part."

"I am not afraid," she replied, lifting herself straight up. "No one yet has ever dared to be so impertinent to me, and no one ever shall." Her whole tone changed and softened, "But, Mr. Thornton, you have been very kind to my father. Let's not keep making each other angry."

He took no notice of her words, occupying himself with smoothing the nap of his hat with his coat sleeve. He rejected her offered hand and, making as if he did not see her grave look of regret, turned abruptly away and left the room.

Margaret caught one glance of his face before he went. She thought she had seen the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes. After he'd gone, this turned her proud dislike into something different and kinder, if nearly as painful—self-reproach for having caused such pain to anyone.

But how could she help it, she mused. She never liked him. She hoped that she was always civil to him but took no trouble to conceal her indifference. She had never thought about herself or him; her manners must have shown the truth. What happened yesterday he might mistake, but that was his fault, not hers. She would do it again if need be, even if it led to such shame and trouble.


End file.
